Chapter Twenty-Four - Makar
The mansion is quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every thought swirling in my head. I sit in my study, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, staring at the faint swirl of amber liquid. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, but it does nothing to warm the chill that’s settled deep inside me.
Hannah’s decision to keep the baby has left me reeling. I told myself that supporting her was the right thing to do, the logical choice. Logic has nothing to do with the way I feel.
I want the baby too.
The admission feels dangerous, even now, as it echoes in the confines of my mind. I’ve spent years convincing myself that attachment is a liability, that caring for anyone or anything is a weakness I can’t afford. And yet, here I am, caught between the fierce determination in her eyes and the fragile hope growing inside her.
Every time I see her, my resolve cracks a little more. The way she cradles her stomach, protective and tender, like she’s already bonded with the child we created together. The way she holds her head high, defiant and strong, even as the pregnancy drains her energy.
I down the rest of the whiskey in one go, the burn a small reprieve from the ache gnawing at my chest.
***
Later that evening, I find myself standing at the doorway to her room. The door is partially open, and the faint glow of a bedside lamp spills out into the hall. I push it open quietly, stepping inside.
She’s asleep, curled up on her side, her hands resting on her belly. Her face is peaceful, the lines of tension and exhaustion smoothed away by sleep. For a moment, I just stand there, watching her, my chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache.
I sit down in the chair beside her bed, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. My eyes trace the curve of her cheek, the faint rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes.
“You don’t make this easy,” I murmur softly, my voice barely audible.
The words spill out before I can stop them, a quiet confession to the sleeping woman before me. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my gaze fixed on her. “I don’t know how to protect you and the baby without losing myself in the process.”
My hand rests on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her. “I will,” I whisper, the words as much a promise to myself as they are to her. “I will protect you… both of you.”
***
The next day, I put my plan into action.
First, I double the security detail at the mansion. Guards are stationed at every entry point, and two are assigned to shadow Hannah’s movements whenever she leaves her room. Andrei doesn’t question me when I issue the orders, though I can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Next, I contact our most trusted doctor—a private physician with experience handling high-risk pregnancies. He’ll be on call 24/7, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of trouble.
Finally, I arrange for the nursery. It’s premature, but I can’t shake the feeling that preparing for the baby will solidify this choice in a way nothing else can.
That evening, I find her in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book in hand. Her hair is loose, tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves, and there’s a faint flush in her cheeks that makes her look almost radiant.
She glances up as I approach, her expression wary but curious.
“Busy day?” she asks, her voice light but tinged with suspicion.
“Productive,” I reply, sitting down in the chair across from her.
Her eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell she’s trying to read me. “What did you do?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I say smoothly, though the corner of my mouth lifts in a faint smile.
She huffs, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she closes her book, setting it aside as her gaze shifts to her belly.
“You’re staring again,” she teases, echoing her words from the night before.
“Can you blame me?” I reply, the same answer I gave her then.
This time, there’s no teasing in my tone.
The sight of her—strong, determined, and carrying our child—softens something in me that I didn’t even know existed. I want her safe. I want her happy. And for the first time in my life, I realize that I want something more than power or control.
I want them.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze never leaving hers. “How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
“Tired,” she admits, her hand brushing over her stomach. “Okay. The meds are helping, I think.”
“Good,” I say, my tone firm but not harsh. “If you need anything, tell me. I’ll make sure you have it.”
She tilts her head, studying me with an expression I can’t quite place. “You’re different lately,” she says softly.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” Her lips curve into a faint smile, and she rests her hand over her belly again. “I think I like it.”
Her words—simple and soft—strike me harder than I expect. I’m not a man used to compliments, let alone one given so freely, with no expectation attached.
“You think you like it,” I repeat, my voice low, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
“I do,” she says, tilting her head slightly as her gaze locks on mine. “Don’t ruin it by being smug.”
The teasing lilt in her voice draws me in, as does the faint blush creeping across her cheeks. My smirk fades into something softer, and before I can second-guess myself, I lean forward, my hand brushing against hers where it rests on the couch.
Her breath hitches, and she looks at me with those wide, dark eyes, a mix of curiosity and something deeper swirling in their depths.
“Hannah,” I murmur, my voice rough as I reach out, cupping her face in my hand. My thumb grazes her cheek, and the softness of her skin makes my chest tighten.
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before meeting mine again.
When I kiss her, it’s slow, unhurried. A soft press of lips that’s more tender than demanding, as though I’m trying to convey everything I can’t say out loud. Her lips part slightly, and I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding to the back of her neck to hold her closer.
She responds with the same gentleness, her fingers brushing against my chest before curling into the fabric of my shirt. The sweet, tentative nature of the kiss stirs something raw and primal inside me, but I force myself to keep my movements controlled.
My free hand moves to her waist, resting lightly against her side. The curve of her body beneath my touch is intoxicating, and I can feel the faint swell of her belly pressing against me.
Desire flares hot and insistent, but I rein it in, pulling back slightly to rest my forehead against hers.
Her lips are kiss-swollen, her cheeks flushed, and the way she looks at me—soft and open—nearly undoes me.
“You’re going to make this difficult,” I murmur, my voice hoarse.
Her lips twitch into a small smile. “Maybe that’s the point,” she whispers.
I chuckle softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face before pulling back entirely. “You’re tired,” I say, my tone gentle but firm. “Fragile.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, but her words lack conviction.
“You will be,” I say, brushing my thumb over her knuckles as I take her hand. “Not tonight.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound between us. I glance at her occasionally, watching the way her fingers idly trace over her belly, her gaze distant as if she’s lost in thought.
“What about names?” I ask suddenly, breaking the quiet.
She blinks, turning to look at me. “Names?”
“For the baby,” I clarify, shifting slightly to face her. “Have you thought about it?”
She shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Not yet. There’s been so much else going on, I haven’t had the chance.”
“We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl,” I say, my tone casual. “Do you want to find out?”
She hesitates, her brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t think so,” she says after a moment. “I’d like it to be a surprise.”
I nod, leaning back against the couch. “Then what kind of names are you thinking?”
Her smile falters slightly, and she looks down at her hands. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Would it need to be… Russian?”
The hesitation in her voice is clear, and I sit up straighter, my gaze narrowing slightly. “You can call the baby whatever you want,” I say firmly. “It’s your choice.”
She looks up at me, her expression uncertain. Wouldn’t it be strange? A child with your name, your legacy, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt gently, reaching out to take her hand again. “This baby is ours, Hannah. Whatever you name them, they’ll carry both of us with them.”
Her lips curve into a small, grateful smile, and she nods. “Okay,” she says softly.
“Good,” I reply, squeezing her hand lightly before letting it go.
The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room as we sit together, the weight of the day slowly easing. For the first time in a long time, I feel something close to peace.